


The Red Nation

by Kendrene



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Minor Character Death, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 100 never came to the ground and there was never an Ark, because nobody was ever in space when the bombs fell. The war between Trikru and Azgeda is raging, when a third force shows up on the chessboard. Are they friend or foe? Between the war and her worry for Costia's disappearance, will Lexa manage to remain Heda?</p>
<p>The AU where Skaikru never existed, and everyone is a Grounder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood From Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, the 100 is the only fandom that prompted me to write AU fanfiction. 
> 
> I have altered some of the names a bit to give them more of a "Grounder" feeling but not all, to show this new clan is set a bit apart from the rest linguistically - Octavia's and John's in this chapter. 
> 
> The inspiration for the red warriors, comes from the recent discovery of a new Viking site in North America. 
> 
> As usual kudos and comments are treasured and guarded by my trusted dragon. I hope you will enjoy this spin on the original story. If there are any errors, as usual please let me know and I will fix them!

 

“ _Swift as the wind._

_Quiet as the forest._

_Conquer like the fire._

_Steady as the mountain."_

 

Sun Tzu – _The Art Of War_

 

"She is here, _Heda_." Titus’ voice tears Lexa away from her dark thoughts and she turns from the view of Polis, just in time to see the throne room's doors being thrown open, and Anya stride inside.

She takes her appearance in as her former mentor approaches. She looks drawn, dusty from the road, and Lexa can tell from the look in her eyes she is the bearer of ill news.

"Has she been found?" the Commander asks as she sits on the throne. She doesn't allow herself to show emotion, but she wishes she could eagerly lean forward on her seat, or walk to Anya and shake the news out of her.

" _No. Moba, Heda._ " the warrior takes a knee in front of her, gaze lowered to the floor. Lexa can tell from the way her shoulders dip for a moment, she feels the weight of failure, and awaits the full wrath of her displeasure.

" _Gyon op gon Heda_ ," she gestures, hand palm up for emphasis. Inside she aches with worry for Costia, but she knows this lead was a feeble one at best. Lexa has exhausted her resources for the time being, and she needs to turn Anya and her war band to encroaching Azgeda. It makes her want to scream, or cry to think that Costia could be already dead, but she cannot afford to falter, not when the Ice Queen dares challenge her rule so openly.

The war between _Azgeda_ and the other clans has been smoldering for several years now. A skirmish here, a raid there, usually picking up in the warmest part of the year, and dying back down with the first snows. Something has changed lately. The Ice Nation warriors fight with a desperate edge she has never witnessed, even against dire odds, where before they were cold and calculating. Something must be unsettling order in their lands and she would give almost anything to know what.

She stands and walks down the dais, as her old friend rises. She places a reassuring hand on Anya's shoulder and guides her to the balcony. They stare down at Polis, alive with crowds surging back and forth across the plaza on market day.

"You did what you could," Lexa breaks the silence at last, her eyes drawn to the north. Her gaze darkens with anger. "I need you to bring your spears elsewhere."

Anya stares at her for a moment, then at the distant point on the horizon she is gazing at so ferociously. " _Azgeda_." Her whisper sounds like a curse.

She nods. "They become more and more reckless as the days go by. I have sent Indra north already, but I need you there too. A show of force to bloody them and teach Nia a lesson before the weather turns bad." She pauses, "I would come with you immediately, but I am meeting with the ambassadors in four days. Everyone is worried about their own land."

Anya snorts derisively. "They worry, yet only _Trikru_ has burned so far. They cower behind you like kicked dogs!" She is seething with contempt by the end of her tirade.

" _Chilnes_ , my friend” Lexa agrees, but knows that to give in to rage even for a moment would make her lose control over all those other emotions she has locked away in a corner of her heart. “I will remind them who exactly is bleeding for them.”

“I will leave immediately, _Heda_ ” the warrior's hand goes to her sword, and she looks famished for blood, eager to wash away the guilt for failing to find Costia.

Lexa shakes her head. “Eat. Rest. A few hours will not make a difference.”

She offers her hand and Anya grasps her forearm in a parting gesture. Lexa looks into her eyes and knows she will not listen. She has to hide a rueful smile. Her friend is at times as stubborn as she knows she can be.

After Anya has taken her leave she turns to Titus.

“Have your people keep their ears open as they scout for _Natblida_.” She sees the twist of the mouth he is quick to hide. He does not approve, but she is past caring. “Now, leave me. I wish to meditate.”

He bows and leaves and when he is finally alone, she lets herself drop to the cold floor, back pressed against a column. She pulls her knees up to her chest and her gaze wanders outside past the city, to the mountains beyond rendered bluish by the distance. She knows that Costia is out there somewhere, and prays that when she finds her it won't be too late.

 

* * *

 

Indra raises a fist and her men fan out behind her, melting into the shadows of the woods, molding their bodies to the landscape, behind bushes, rocks, even grass so short it should not be able to conceal the smallest animal. When she glances back they have all but vanished, like spirits of the forest, never seen, always present.

Anya crouches low next to her, face green and brown with mud, the metal of her armor dulled purposefully with dust. Even the sheen of their bare blades is subdued, so that not even the merest glint of metal will give them away.

They exchange a long look, and Anya shakes her head slightly. The Azgeda line has not spotted them, and she signals to Indra her will to observe.

The warrior frowns, feeling bewildered. The northerners are behaving strangely, forming a battle line in the middle of a meadow, a bit further than the forest’s edge, not even bothering to set up a rearguard. She would do such a thing only if she was privy to the direction her enemies would attack from.

A lone rider appears on a hill at the other end of the field, no bigger than an ant at this distance, yet the blaring of his horn is carried all the way to the _Trikru_ position.

The Azgeda warriors form a shield wall quickly, their commander, a tall man with a bear pelt around the shoulders, barking orders at them. Suddenly one of them points, a scream of hatred and animal rage on his lips, and Indra hears Anya’s sharp intake of breath, as they watch men file into the meadow on the far side,

Their armor is steel and leather, not much different than her own, but these warriors do not wear the white of the Ice Nation, or the dark gray and black of her clan. They are led by a young man on horseback, who unfurls a banner the color of fresh blood. As they draw closer she notices they all wear red, whether war paint on their faces, or in bits of cloth tied around arms or thighs.

They crash to a halt with a great stomping of feet, and form up their own shield wall, and at a gesture from the youth leading them, they raise their spears and march forward. Each lance is tipped in barbed metal and strings of crimson silk are tied just below the point. For a moment it seems like the field has caught fire.

“Whoever they are, “ Indra mutters between clenched teeth, “they will be slaughtered.” The Ice warriors outnumber the strangers two to one.

Anya says nothing, but the set of her shoulders tells the older woman she doesn’t share the assessment. Indra wonders briefly what her companion has noticed that escapes her, but before she can ask, a chilling, ululating war cry rises from the red-clad warriors. They charge, lances tipped forward and she knows they will break their teeth on the Azgeda shields, but before they come into contact, the first line hurls their spear at the enemy and peels to the side. The Azgeda line backs up a step surprised, as the lances embed on their shields, dragging them down, and when the warriors lose their protection, the second line throws again, striking flesh.

They follow the same strategy as their brethren and peel to the side, the whole army giving their backs to the enemy and starting a retreat. The Ice warriors' blood is up and with screams of their own, they break formation, giving pursuit. They leave several bodies unmoving on the ground.

Indra watches fascinated. Surely when Azgeda catches up to the fleeing soldiers it will be a massacre, yet part of her feels this was all too deliberate to be coincidence.

A horn's call breaks through the din of battle, its note high and silver lined, compared to the wild, deep lament of their own war horns.

The red robed soldiers form up again. They have broken up in smaller units, and they assemble in tight circles, rings of wood and metal, like drops of blood in the white sea of Azgeda snow.

Suddenly the ground vibrates underneath Indra's feet and horses burst from a copse of trees, not too far from where they are sheltering, the strategy suddenly made clear. Nia’s warriors are so engrossed into trying to break the enemies' smaller formations open that they turn too late. The riders drive into them without a sound and she counts at least thirty, but it is hard to tell as they move and dance around so fast she cannot keep up.

They ride in a pack at first, swords rising and falling in the midst of the enemies, then split into units of three and Indra watches as they separate the Azgeda soldiers from each other, before tearing them apart with steel, or simply trampling them over. Where the horsemen don’t reach, the foot soldiers surge forwards, finishing stragglers or wounded. They are methodical, precise and she shivers at the prospect of facing them. She will, if it comes to that, but the odds do not appear as good as she judged them to be in the beginning.

“Whoever they are,” Anya’s hand grasps her shoulder, “they have a quarrel with Azgeda. _Heda_ needs to know before we do anything rash.” She must have read on Indra’s face that she intended to order the attack.

They spot the young man that led the lancers, as he reins in not far from them. Three of the horsemen, all women, ride to meet him and they all dismount.

“Well met Jon,” the wind is blowing towards the _Trikru_ units and the words carry easily. The speaker, a girl truly, appears to be of an age with the Commander. Her hair is the color of spun gold, tied out of the way in a tight braid that reaches almost halfway down her back. Where the other warriors only wear scraps of red, she bears a heavy cloak on her shoulders, and the way the other women flank her, fiercely protective, speaks volumes to Indra’s trained eyes.

“Did you keep one alive?” one of the guards asks abruptly, a sneer on her lips.

The young man sighs in annoyance. “I _can_ follow orders Oktavia.” He points to a spot in the grass, where a defeated warrior is kneeling, surrounded by red.

“When you choose to,” the woman retorts grudgingly.

Their leader raises her hands diplomatically. “ _Chilnes_ , _Aesir._ Keep your disputes for the training grounds.”

They all bow their heads respectfully, even the man, this Jon, who seems the wildest of the lot.

“Yes _Fisa_.”

A healer? Indra and Anya exchange a confused look. Maybe they have heard wrong, or maybe the word has a different meaning for these people, but their accents are so similar to _Triku_ ’s own language, that somehow they do not believe they are mistaken.

The prisoner is dragged forward and grunts in pain. He is wounded, not seriously perhaps, but the handling isn’t gentle.

“You red _bushhada_!” he spits at her feet, “you come and steal our land like thieves!”

The woman seems unmoved by the outburst, save for a hardening of her icy stare, but one of the others lunges forward and grabs him by the throat, making him choke on the next insult.

“You will address her with respect, or you will lose your tongue,” she threatens, baring a small knife with her free hand for emphasis.

The leader places a restraining hand on her arm, “we aren’t like them Raven. _Chil yu daun._ ” She crouches in front of the man, so close her protectors tense warily.

“Clarke….” Raven reaches out to her, but she brushes her concern away.

“We didn’t steal anything. We took land your forefathers left to be reclaimed by the wilderness.”

“It is our land!” he roars in her face. He strains against the solders holding him, muscles tensing in his neck.

“Because of faded lines on a map?” she snorts derisively, ”you call us thieves, yet you are trying to claim villages not yours. We have seen the fires you left behind. We have seen you on the land of those called _Trikru_.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then spits, hitting her on the cheek. Her backhand is casual, almost bored and the steel in her gauntlet splits his lip.

She stands. She is short, yet manages to tower over him.

“You will bring a message to your Queen.” Her voice is cutting, “tell her we will not stop until she agrees to give us the one responsible for the massacre at Arkadia.” She smiles thinly, “the one they call Ontari.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “You mad whore! Our armies number more than snowflakes during a winter storm! We will feed you all to our dogs! You and the _Trikru_ bitch both!”

Indra tenses and feels Anya’s fingers close like an iron vice around her arm.

“No,” the warrior hisses, “he resorts to petty insults because he has nothing else left. Look, the girl knows this.”

They keep watching as the prisoner is allowed to stand and pushed through a gauntlet of jeering red clad soldiers. Once he is past them, he starts running, looking back occasionally as if afraid they will decide to spear him through the back.

“What now?” one of the warriors asks after he has disappeared from view.

The girl called Clarke watches after the man a while longer.

“He is right on one thing. We lost a few today and there are far more of them than of us. We seek allies, or we die.”

She turns towards the forest suddenly, and Indra feels those bright blue eyes are looking directly at them.

 

* * *

 

Anya presses her back to a tree, and peeks around the trunk at the preparations going on in the small clearing.

“Are you sure about this, Clarke?” the young woman turns to her companion, as she folds her red cloak and hands it to her.

“For the hundredth time, Oktavia, I am.” She strips her armor off quickly, and dons black clothes, and much simpler equipment, mostly leather, with the hint of well-oiled mail underneath.

“I do not like this,” the man accompanying them paces back and forth like an angry wolf, dark eyes darting from a possible hiding place to the next, looking for danger.

“When do you _ever_ like anything, Jon?” the blond girl counters and he grunts, but stops his furious walking and faces her.

“If something happens to you, your mother will have our heads.”

“She knows the dangers as well as anyone,” Anya watches as Clarke picks up her weapons, a short sword that has seen some heavy use and a dagger. Her attentive eyes also notice the extra knife concealed in one boot.

“Still, what you propose borders on insanity,” he protests again.

“You’d rather I march a small army up to the gates of their nearest settlement and demand to see this _Heda_ of theirs? We don’t know if she is any better than Nia, and that’s why I need to go alone. Anything more and she may see us as an invading force. I will get a better feeling for these people if I can spend some time with them, then we will decide whether they are approachable.”

“We just had a battle on their bloody doorstep _Fisa_ ,” he mutters, “I don’t see the difference.”

Oktavia hands their leader a small bag of supplies and she slings it over her shoulder.

“You know _Trikru_ must have had watchers, Jon. They saw us _retreat_ from their border, after slaughtering a small army of their enemies. I say if they see anything in us, it’s potential allies.”

Anya smirks at the brunette’s words. She wants to believe they may be, but years of betrayals and death have hardened her heart. What these red warriors are, remains to be decided.

“I am ready,” Clarke turns from them, but stops when Oktavia reaches for her arm. “Be careful.” Past convincing her to renounce her plan, Anya sees the girl’s eyes fill with a silent plea. She recalls every time she has said the exact same words, as Lexa was about to do something potentially mortal and feels some sympathy for the girl’s guardians.

“May we meet again.” Their leader bows her head then turns without a backward glance and vanishes into the deepening shadows.

Anya watches the other two walk away in the opposite direction, then slips on the girl’s trail, fingering the hilt of her knife. She is starting to take quite a liking to this one for some reason. She hopes she will not have to kill her.

 

* * *

 

Clarke walks swiftly and quietly until it is almost too hard to see, then finds a group of oaks that have grown together so tightly, they almost form a natural wall. An icy wind has picked up, beating the branches above her, and she shivers. Yet she grits her teeth, partly to keep them from chattering. She reminds herself she endured far worse back _home_.

A grimace crosses her features at the thought of the cruel land she and her people left behind, exhausted, decimated, most firmly convinced they'd die at sea. Some had, and like she does every night, she sits cross-legged on the ground, closing her eyes, and recalls their names and each of their faces, as well as the face of every man she has killed since she set foot on this new land. She is trained as a warrior, like every last one of her clan, yet she is a healer at heart. She hates having to take a life, and finds this violence, born from misunderstanding, a useless waste.

This place is different, harsh but not tainted by the same air of despair that lingers everywhere on the piece of unforgiving land she was born on. She didn't doubt for a second that they would eventually have to fight someone when they arrived, but she had hoped the Ice Nation would see them as a resource, not a threat.

She recalls the abandoned villages they had come upon as they scouted inland, her mother's decision to settle the closest to the shore and send envoys to those who ruled there.

Only their heads had come back, and wave after wave of brutes had followed. They had no choice, but fight; for their lives at first, and then to gain more of a foothold.

She shivers again, but she does not light a fire. She has suffered worse in the past and a night in the cold won't kill her. She is still too close to Azgeda territory to risk drawing unwanted attention. _Azgeda_. Even the name is sharp and cruel as those who proudly bear it on their skin.

A soft sound to her right, has her unfold from her position in a heartbeat. She silently bares her dagger and moves deeper into the darkness at the base of the trees. Her eyes critically scan the spot she had occupied moments earlier. She isn't the best woodsman, and the moon gives scarce light, but she is satisfied the earth does not appear to be disturbed.

Soon enough, tiny pinpricks of light appear. Torches. Voices, thick with the guttural accent of the Ice Nation warriors float to her ears from the darkness, then a woman's wail echoes around the trees. A curse, a sudden snapping of branches, like of someone falling, then the meaty thud of a booted foot connecting with flesh.

Clarke frowns, as the wail repeats, more desperate this time, and edges closer to the source of the sound, darting warily from one piece of cover to the next. She stops, when she comes to the edge of the torches' light and flattens herself to the ground.

She is blinded by the flames for a moment, then her enemies resolve out of the night. She counts four, and between them the owner of the voice, curled onto herself, hands thrown over her hooded head to protect her face from the beating. She is dressed in their colors, but her garments are dark with the wetness of fresh blood.

“ _Gyon op!_ ” one of the men snarls, kicking her again. She merely shakes her head and tries to make herself smaller, as a moan of pain tumbles from her lips.

Clarke bites her lip, grip tightening around her weapon. She is alone and there are four of them, but she feels she has to do something. She sees the hurt, and her instinct wills her to mend and fix and soothe it.

She tenses, testing the sharpness of her blade with her thumb, but before she can move a hand cold as the night's wind clamps over her mouth, and an arm tightly encircles her from behind, and silently she is dragged backwards into the darkness.

 


	2. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is confronted with a tough choice, surrender or death? Will her arguments be persuasive enough? Failing her mission means death for the Red Nation. 
> 
> Who is the hostage the Azgeda's warriors are taking to their homeland? And who will rescue her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize- update took a while, besides having a few ongoing projects, my eyes have been acting up so I cannot write as much as I would like. I hope you will have the patience to bear with me. Thank you for taking the time to read my work.
> 
> As usual kudos and comments are treasured and help me improve. If you have any suggestions please feel free to let me know. If you find any errors, sound off below and I will send Jon to take care of them.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

“ _I don't have to beat you. I don't have to beat you, motherfucker. I just have to keep you here... until Jean shows up.”_

 

Scott Lynch – _The Lies Of Locke Lamora_

 

Clarke’s brain works feverishly as she goes completely limp and lets the mysterious assailant drag her backwards, away from the torches and the violence of the men. Her first thought is that one of the Ice warriors, one she didn’t account for, has somehow managed to come up behind her. She is a good tracker herself, but not the best, and this thick woodland is foreign to anything she has known in her homeland.

She has spent time training with Jon after they came ashore, as he patiently honed her skills and helped her attune to the lay of this land, but whoever caught her off guard is much, much better than she.

As the torches dwindle in the distance and then are obscured by the encroaching trees, she realizes her captor has been entirely silent, as if unwilling to attract attention on their struggle. When she judges they are far enough that some rustling will go unnoticed, she scans the ground around them for an opportunity. An ancient root, lifting out of the mossy ground offers the best chance, so she hooks her leg over it, halting the aggressor’s efforts and shakes her head from side to side, trying to find purchase with her teeth as the hand clamped over her mouth relents slightly.

She bites into flesh and breaks skin, and the hand disappears for a moment, a hiss of pain coming from the night behind her. Before her heart beats twice, the arm dragging her shifts around her throat, cutting off her airflow and a dagger appears at the edge of her vision, before digging into the soft meat of her neck, just a breath away from spilling blood.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” a woman’s voice as sharp as the blade’s edge, as cold as steel, “don’t make me.”

Clarke tenses involuntarily and the arm tightens further, deceptively slim and wiry, yet she feels hard muscles flex against her throat. Black vines slither at the corners of her vision and the world dims slightly as her brain begins to suffer from the lack of air. Her lungs burn, and the little wind whistling between her teeth is not enough to keep her conscious for long. Her gaze rolls around frantically and for the first time she notices the colors of the woman’s garb. Black, not bone-white.

_Trikru_.

It takes all of her remaining willpower to relax her body a second time, in utter surrender instead of deceit, but the woman senses the shift because the bite of the metal leaves her skin and the choke hold lessens. She is pushed to the ground gasping, greedily filling her aching lungs and the woman seizes the advantage as she is vulnerable, straddling her, hands searching her inch by inch.

Clarke is quickly separated from the sword and the dagger at her waist, then the warrior’s touch moves downward, tugging free the smaller knife concealed inside her boot. That gives Clarke pause; she could not possibly know about it, unless…

_Unless she shadowed me longer than I thought._

The woman’s hand appears in front of her eyes, in a silent offer and she takes it, struggling up to a sitting position. She swallows hard and grimaces, her neck bruised, mouth dried out like land cracked by drought.

Her eyes go to the dark bundle the warrior is now crouching over and the woman shakes her head, imagining her thoughts. Clarke watches as the warrior stands slowly, and unsheathes her own weapons, laying them carefully on the ground next to hers. She steps back, so they both sit away from their blades, dark eyes never leaving Clarke’s and lowers herself to the ground. She shows her empty hands as she does, signaling a truce, if not a ceasing of their hostility.

“Now we talk,” she says, the tone that of a leader used to be obeyed.

“Those men…” The Trikru woman doesn’t let her finish., “they will not go far. Their hostage won’t walk any longer this night.”

Clarke reaches out, almost pleadingly, her every instinct screaming at her to go and get the girl.

“They will kill her! She must be one of yours. You…” The woman raises a hand imperiously, and again she falters.

“Charging in like you meant to do _will_ get us all killed,” she gestures for Clarke to sit back.

“We will talk.” She repeats.

There is a finality in her voice that sends shivers down Clarke’s spine. Clearly she has no choice.

“After we will go to find her. Or I will, alone,” the woman adds, barely audible.

The unspoken threat is more than apparent. She falls silent, but her eyes bore into Clarke’s and she knows the woman is waiting for her to start. Even that may be a test. She works some moisture around her mouth, aware that the wrong words will leave her dead, her mission a failure.

“ _Ai laik Klark kom..._ ” she frowns, uncertain. Her dialect and these tribes' languages are eerily similar, but there is not direct translation for some of the words her people use. She casts a glance off in the direction where the Azgeda men must still be, “they call us many things,” there is no need to say who _they_ are, she sees the hatred light up the woman's gaze, “we are the Red Nation.”

“I am Anya. _Kom Trikru_.” her smile is thin and doesn't reach her eyes, “but you already knew that.”

She takes her time, seemingly uncaring that one of her own people is being beaten to a pulp not far from them. Clarke wants to scream in frustration.

“Why do you want to help her?” Maybe not as leisurely as she thought, the question cutting to Clarke's motives with surgical precision. She sees Anya's stance change slightly, an air of anticipation surrounding her frame, and knows instinctively this is the most important answer she will ever give.

“I am oath bound,” she will not repeat the sacred words to one not of the tribe, not yet, but the woman just leans forward, waiting for her to explain. “I am a healer first, a warrior after that. As such I have sworn to bring relief to those who suffer,” Clarke's gaze flicks to the discarded weapons, “at times I can only offer death,” she slowly raises her eyes to meet Anya's and lets the strength of her conviction fill her, “I want to help her before _that_ becomes the only choice.”

Anya seems taken aback by her forcefulness, but she doesn't move and Clarke knows that more is needed to prove her good faith. They key lies in her surrender. She remembers her mother’s teachings about the healing process. How for it to be truly effective, the healer has to build a complete trust with the afflicted, so that they can relinquish control of their bodies to someone that can guide her to recovery.

The only way she will achieve something with this woman, is by putting herself in her power completely. Her people are slowly but surely dying, Azgeda a plague upon them and earning Trikru’s alliance will cure them.

Clarke stretches out a hand, palm up, hoping their customs are not that far removed.

“I will swear a blood oath to you. To never lift a weapon against _Trikru_ , and obey you in all things.”

Anya’s eyes narrow suspiciously, “why?”

Clarke reads the years of distrust and hurt on every line that appears on the warrior’s face and her own animosity towards the Ice Nation grows. She wills herself to stillness, letting the suffering of her tribe guide her heart and her mind, instead of the hatred causing so much destruction.

“I am desperate,” she confesses quietly, laying herself bare in front of a stranger that may well decide killing her benefits her most after all.

Anya weights her words carefully, then picks her knife from the ground and toys with it, blade flashing dully as the moon peeks for a moment in between the heavy clouds that were ushered in by the freezing wind.

“And your men?” Anya presses finally.

Clarke shrugs, “I command only the war band you saw,” she has no doubt anymore that the woman witnessed the battle and followed since, “my word carries weight with the tribe, but I cannot swear an oath in their stead,” her shoulders slump dejectedly as her gaze locks onto the knife, “if that is not enough, then just get it over with.”

A rustling is all the answer she gets, then Anya crouches in front of her, so close she feels the heat coming off her body, lessening the chill. The woman, face now dipped in shadow, holds out her own hand and the knife flashes, slicing her upturned palm open.

Clarke doesn’t expect to be offered the hilt, so when it happens, it takes her a moment to reach for it, fingers hesitantly brushing against the worn leather. Anya’s eyes are the only thing of her features she can see and the warrior nods, nudging the weapon against her hand.

Clarke’s fingers close around it and she swiftly cuts a wound into her flesh, mirroring Anya’s. She hears a soft gasp, but when her eyes search the other woman questioningly, she is utterly still. The tension must be playing tricks on her.

They clasp hands, palm to palm, their blood mixing, the cuts throbbing together, and Anya stands, pulling her upward too.

“Arm yourself,” she orders, immediately testing the veracity of Clarke’s oath, “there is only one place where they would stop in hostile land.”

Clarke picks her weapons without replying, arming quickly. Reading the older woman’s intentions she lets a feral grin tug at her lips. They will go to them while they sleep, just like the Ice warriors did in Arkadia, during the truce talks. For once she does not entirely regret the spilling of blood that’s far from innocent.

 

* * *

 

  
  


The man shifts irritably on the rock he chose as seat, scratching at the itchy stubble covering his cheeks with dirt encrusted fingernails. He peers out of the cave’s mouth, the intermittent moonlight bathing the forest beyond in flickering shadows. His ears strain, but the only sound is that of the wind, howling between branches, as it carries the first whiffs of winter from further north.

_Home._

Soon, on the morrow if the bitch won’t slow them down, they will ghost across the border, back into safer lands. He shivers slightly at the prospect of meeting Queen Nia. Safety is a relative concept in their clan. Still, the prize they picked during the incursion is worth so much, all of them and their children, and their children’s children will be set for a life luxurious compared to that of the rest of the tribe. Nia scares him, but not nearly as much as the hooded figure that told them where to find the girl.

His eyes flick back to the dark bundle tightly curled on the ground, furthest from the entrance. The small fire was extinguished as soon as they made tea, but he does not need its light to know she has been beaten so hard she could not get out of the ropes twisting her arms back painfully even if she wanted to. The strength to chafe at their orders and struggle left her days ago, slapped and kicked out of her by heavy hands and heavier boots. She has stopped her whimpering around the gag and he is glad. The constant crying was driving him mad.

He yawns and rubs at his eyes, before stretching his back and standing, collecting the spear he had left leaning against the nearby rock wall. Quietly he pads outside. One more round, keeping the cave’s mouth always in sight, then he will wake one of the others to take the dead man’s shift.

He works some moisture onto his tongue and spits a fat glob of phlegm on the ground. He isn’t the superstitious sort, but he is glad he did not draw the last shift when they cast the lots.

As he walks outside, the forest presses down on him, far more menacing than in daylight and he hunches his shoulders. In their lands, the weather is much more inclement and the forests vast, but sparse, the soil unyielding and hard to toil and make fertile. That is the main reason they come south in such large numbers, besides Nia's burning ambition. Need herds them onward like cattle and one day Trikru will be no more and his children will know summer.

As he walks, careful not to stumble on the uneven ground, lance prodding the dirt ahead of him like a walking staff, the contents of his bladder slosh around inside him, and he realizes he has to relieve himself.

With a tired sigh, he reverses the grip on the spear and plants it on the ground, before spreading his legs and undoing the strings of his trousers. He relieves himself slowly, enjoying the quiet, and the dripping sound of his piss hitting the carpet of leaves joins the whispers of the night around him. There is a soft _crack_ coming from the bushes to his right, and his hand shoots out, lifting the spear in a hurry as warm liquid trickles all over his boots. All he can hear now is the rush of blood in his ears, and the hisses of air escaping his parted lips as adrenaline surges through him.

He never sees the lithe figure coming up behind him and he has no time to shout, as the blade ghosts across his neck, severing blood vessels and vocal chords.

The soft patter on the leaves becomes rain, and his body is noiselessly guided to the ground, before the shadow melts back into darkness.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


Anya loses no time as she sees the dark silhouette of the lone guard fall, and slithers on her belly to the opening, leading inside the cave. She holds her breath as her eyes adjust to the darker interior, and the shapes of the slumbering warriors resolve into reality. There is a brief touch on her arm, and Clarke lowers herself carefully next to the older woman, blue eyes void of emotion and focused on the task ahead. She raises a questioning eyebrow and Anya points a finger to the left of the cave. She will keep the two sleeping close to one another on the right for herself. It was risky perhaps, let the girl kill the guard, since all of her plan hinged on it, but she had trailed Clarke long enough to witness her abilities. There was room for improvement, but she was well trained. As her thoughts linger on the young woman at her side, the skin where her blood touched seems to tingle.

She taps a finger on the girl's wrist and they move in unison, crouching low like stalking wolves and edging inside, blades tightly gripped and ready for slaughter.

Clarke gets to her target a breath before her and as the wind gives a louder howl outside, she plunges the knife into his flesh to the hilt. There is a slight shudder, but no sound and Anya knows he will never wake. She takes her first, just as quietly, blood rapidly pooling under their feet, but the second man's eyes pop open as her blade descends towards his neck and he rolls savagely to the side, avoiding death narrowly. He scrambles up with a hoarse shout, as he blade stabs again and opens a gash on the forearm he interposes between metal and face. He lunges backwards before either of them can act, and seizes the hostage roughly by the scruff of the neck, hauling her against him, and lifting her to stand in front of himself, in a headlock similar to that she herself used on Clarke.

“Another step and she dies!” he growls when Clarke shifts her weight slightly forward and she freezes. Anya does the same, as her eyes scan the small cave for a clue on their next move.

He prods his human shield forward roughly, “now I will leave,” he grates, “and if you follow I will leave you her corpse,” he tugs the girl's head back and she moans, “piece by piece.”

He pushes her again and her legs give way unexpectedly, leaving him to frantically grasp for air as she falls forward with a grunt.

Anya sees the window of opportunity and lunges, but Clarke is there first, slashing an apparently empty palm across his gaping face.

Time seems to still, then he brings shaking hands to the torn skin and screams, scrambling backwards and falling, fingers tearing at his face, as his mouth opens wide, his screeching getting louder.

Clarke lets something fall on the ground, a small, razor-like blade Anya had not found when she searched her. The girl was armed the whole time, yet never lashed out even when she could have. As both women walk to kneel by the prone prisoner, the Azgeda's warrior starts trashing, heels drumming on the ground, until he stops with one last rattling breath and Anya realizes he has chewed and choked on his own tongue.

_Poison._

Before she can ask anything, her attention is drawn to Clarke's hands, tender now, cradling the girl's head as she works the sackcloth covering her loose and peels it away.

The girl yelps at seeing an unknown face, then her bloodshot eyes find Anya and she lets out an heart wrenching sob.

“Costia...” Anya feels relief swell inside, that quickly turns to worry, as she hears how labored the woman's breathing is. Without thought she grabs one of Clarke's hand in both of hers and squeezes it tightly.

“Help her,” it isn't an order this time, she is beyond caring about orders, “please, _Fisa._ ”

 


	3. THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE

After much debate I have decided I will rework the first two chapters and push the story into past tense. I have laid out several scenes, but I feel the constriction of limited third person POV - like I cannot have my characters do all they want to do - and think the overall plot would benefit from some head hopping - as is easier to move POVs along in parallel during the same scene - I could rely more strongly on my own voice, but I want to let the characters talk - after all I am just a vessel. 

As for the overall lenght of the story I asses it at around 20 chapters. I will add the chapter count when I update.

I hope you will stick with me and thank you for your patience.

Please, if you have suggestions do not hesitate to drop me a line. I am doing my best to improve my writing and yout thoughts help.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS  
> Moba: I am sorry  
> Gyon op gon Heda: get up for your Heda  
> Chilnes: peace  
> Chil yu daun: calm down  
> Bushhada: coward


End file.
